San. And when, sweet madam, will you crown our joys?
Let's not, like riotous gamesters, throw away
The treasure of our time: appoint the hour,
The hour which must wear garlands of delight,
By which we'll make't the envy of the age.
Cle. My lord, what mean you?
San. What all fine lords mean
Who have plenty, youth and title.
Cle. But my fame!
San. 'Tis the fool's bugbear.
Cle. Then my conscience!
San. A scarecrow for old wives, whom wrinkles make
Religious.
Cle. What will the court say?
San. Why, nothing.
In mercy to themselves, all other ladies
Will keep your counsel.
Cle. But will you not boast it?